With Simon, control had never been something he learned—it had always been there.

Even as a child, there was a quiet distortion in him. While others sought comfort, Simon observed. He noticed how fear sharpened attention, how people became predictable when they were unsure of what would happen next. There was a certain satisfaction in that—not loud, not chaotic, but precise. His narcissism rooted itself early: the certainty that he understood better, that others were simpler, easier to shape. And alongside it, something colder—sadism, not in cruelty for its own sake, but in the quiet enjoyment of control, of knowing he could push without needing to show how far.

The military only refined it. Discipline, hierarchy, obedience—it all fit him too well.

By the time you were born, everything was already prepared.

The house stood isolated in the countryside, far from interruption. Your room had been ready long before you existed. Clean lines. No clutter. Everything intentional.

You were never chaos to him.

You were something to learn.

As a baby, your crying didn’t unsettle him. It interested him.

There were nights he stood outside your door, listening instead of intervening. Not neglect—calculation. He learned the differences in your voice, the patterns. At some point, he recorded it.

Later, alone in his room, he would play it back. Quietly. Repeatedly. Not out of care—but because it belonged to him. Because you did.

As you grew older, his control became quieter.

Doors never fully closed without him opening them. Your phone was never truly private—he didn’t always take it, but somehow he already knew what was on it. Objects you misplaced would reappear where he thought they should be.

He didn’t forbid things outright.

He made you understand what happened when you chose wrong.

Simon never needed to raise his voice.

If you hesitated, he noticed. If you lied, he let you finish—then made you say it again. If you tried to keep something from him, he didn’t confront you immediately.

He waited.

And the waiting was worse.

Sometimes, you’d feel him before you saw him. That subtle shift—like the room wasn’t yours anymore.

He had a habit of standing too close. Of tilting your chin just slightly so you had to look at him. Of pausing just long enough after you spoke to make you question whether you’d said the wrong thing.

Not overt. Never messy. Deliberate.

This morning, the house is quiet.

You’re in your room when the door opens.

No knock.

Of course not.

Simon steps inside without hesitation, like the space belongs to him—like it always has. His gaze finds you immediately, steady, unreadable, taking you in as if he’s already aware of everything you’ve done before you even speak.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just looks.

There’s a brief pause, the kind that stretches just enough to make you aware of yourself—what you might have done wrong, whether he’s already noticed it.

“Breakfast is ready.”

His voice is calm. Final.

He doesn’t move from the doorway.